


Living Well

by Ripplestitchskein



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bromance, F/M, episode fic, spoiler warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripplestitchskein/pseuds/Ripplestitchskein
Summary: Spoiler Warning:Canon divergence based on the promo for 6.06, and the spearhead that Captain Nemo has. Not really a spec fic but based on the idea that Killian takes the burden of the spear and Nemo’s quest to bring hope to those with vengeance on as his own. Captain Charming ahoy.





	

_____

  
  


The sound of metal on wood haunts his dreams. The dull rhythmic hum of the spinning spearhead constant and seemingly never ending in this town of lost and vengeful souls. But he has made a vow to find them, to set them to rights, to help them chart a new course, and so he spins it again. 

 

Today his client is a portly fellow, a blubbering mass of red faced anger and sweat soaked rage who glares at him over a stack of pancakes so steeped in butter and syrup it makes his stomach turn. 

 

“I don't see what that has to do with me,” the man says, mouth full, jaw working to chew. 

 

Killian purses his lips together to quell his disgust and motions towards the table, the wicked looking tip unnaturally frozen, pointing directly at the man, refusing to budge from its position.

 

“I told you,” he forces a smile. “I'm here to help you.” 

 

“The only help I need is skinnin me a wolf,” the man jabs a fork into his pancake, the tines almost shattering the porcelain with the force of it. 

 

“Not the help I'm offering mate,” Killian raises an eyebrow and looks around the diner a bit warily. “And if I were you I’d keep my voice down. Granny’s hearing is excellent for...obvious reasons, and you seem like a man who has need of the service she provides.”

 

He shrugs, a bit more subdued, and takes another bite. 

 

“She’s just as bad as  _ him _ , filthy mongrels,” he grumbles.

 

If it were any other time, any other mission, the man would have found himself flat on his back, the tip of the spear pressed against his bulbous throat, but Killian is a man of a different purpose now, and he just closes his eyes briefly before pressing on, teeth clenched.

 

“I realize you have, let's say, a prejudice against people of the lupine persuasion, but I can assure you that neither of the Lucas women wronged you,” Killian says. “And as such, I will not hear a word against them, is that  _ quite  _ clear?” Despite the cheerful delivery the threat is unmistakeable and the man jerks his head into a nod, more than a bit fearfully, and let's his fork drop into the mess on the plate. 

 

“So you’ll help me then?” he pitches his voice low, conspiratorial. “You’ll help me find him? Make him pay for what he did to my home, to my brothers?”

 

Killian forces a smile, scooping up the former weapon, now a force for good, and places it in his pocket.

 

“Not quite.” 

 

______

  
  


“So you got him a job?” Emma asks at dinner later that evening. 

 

It’s “potluck” night, whatever that means, and her parents had once again arrived bearing dishes covered in shiny silver metal, Regina and Henry following close behind with their own contributions, Belle appearing shortly after with salad in hand, as the Jolly was not exactly conducive to cooking anything more ambitious. 

 

He nods, fingertips idly playing with the spearhead on the table between them.

 

“I thought he could do something constructive. Something to honor their memory,” Killian frowns down at it. 

 

The metal keeps catching on the wood, refusing to move, meeting resistance as he tries to push it with his finger. He picks it up, rubbing a finger across the surface of the table, feeling for a groove or a divot that would stop its progress and finding none. 

 

“So what did you have him do?” David asks across from him, leaning down to wipe at the red stained chin of his infant son. Killian looks up, putting it back in his pocket, the table forgotten.

 

“Construction,” he says taking up his fork instead. “He used to build houses with the brothers he lost, and we have many here who were displaced from their homes, it seemed a natural fit. I convinced him volunteering his skills was a more worthwhile use of his time.”

 

Emma raises an amused eyebrow at him in question, trying not to smile.

 

“No threats were made, you have my word Swan,” he promises, his own lips curling into a smile at her good natured implication. “Well... not many.”

 

“Well that sounds like a wonderful idea,” Snow says dreamily. “Think of how many families could benefit from a fresh start in a new home here.” 

 

This time his smile turns sheepish, his throat thick as he thinks of his own fresh start, his own new home, every seat in its kitchen filled, every cup in the cabinet used, every surface now covered in food, every space filled with light. He feels his eyes sting as he focuses on his plate.

 

“Aye.”

 

_____

 

Using the spearhead is tricky, it's guidance unclear sometimes, especially in a place like Storybrooke where so many of the stories begin the same way. 

 

“What’s wrong?” David asks, stirring a foul powdery substance into his morning coffee.

 

Killian frowns down at the object, which has suddenly stopped moving. 

 

“I'm not sure where it wants me to go,” Killian reaches out, spinning it again. It turns, once, twice, three times, but stops suddenly, wobbling slightly back and forth before freezing in place. David looks down at it, the tip pointing directly at his legs.

 

“Do you think it's broken?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

 

Killian frowns again and looks up at the man, eyes narrowing. David just stares back at him placidly. The thought that enters his his head is an absurd one, the idea that the Prince would have a heart filled with vengeance is absolutely ridiculous, but the weapon has not failed him yet. The man has been distracted lately as well, troubled and distant. David tips his cup at him, the concern in his voice still evident despite his friendly tone.

 

“Maybe you’re just working too hard.” 

 

“Maybe,” Killian flashes him a quick, forced smile, a show of teeth and nothing more, shaking the silly notion off just as Emma enters, her smile bright, her lips lingering on his cheek, all vanilla and sunshine.

 

He’ll try again later.

 

______

 

A ridiculously dramatic man with a cellar and a love of wine takes up most of the next few weeks, the slights against him numerous but vague and nonspecific.

 

Still, Killian does the best he can with what he has, meeting the man almost nightly, attending his elaborate dinner parties, trying to bridge the gap and get him to talk his grievances over, to work through them rather than act on them.

 

He’s tired when he comes home, and slightly drunk. Emma kisses the wine from his lips when he slides into bed, and drapes a leg across his knees, joking that he is enjoying this one far more than he should.

 

He remembers the spearhead twitching into position on the dresser when he'd set it down, pointing in the direction of the town proper, and he opens his mouth to ask her about father: Has he been acting strangely? Has he mentioned anything? 

But she's pressing him back into the bed, shifting onto his lap, hair a curtain of silk, skin warm beneath his palm, and the words fall away forgotten.

 

______

 

He isn't always successful. Which hurts more than he cares to admit, the sense of failure, the heavy burden of a soul, of  _ souls _ , he let down weighing heavy on his own. 

 

He isn't fast enough to stop a poisoned drink any more than he can stop a poisoned mind.

 

The girl, Constance has butter bright hair, a sweet serene face, and an olive dress the color of Swan’s eyes. 

 

He isn't quick enough to appeal to the woman who kills her but he takes some comfort in reaching the man who seeks to avenge her, pointing him in the direction of his three brothers in arms rather than a heart filled with hate, hopefully setting the young brash man on a path of justice rather than revenge.

 

It's cold comfort for failure. 

 

_____

 

Henry and Belle are the most helpful on his quest, their familiarity with these sometimes odd, but mostly sad, stories at least pointing him in the right directions most days. 

 

David is the least helpful, the spearhead growing warm in his pocket when the Prince approaches, steady and unwavering on any surface around him. The man is hiding something that much is certain, hatred has entered his heart, has taken root there and filled the space once filled with love.

 

“Something you want to talk about, mate?” He asks one day, booted feet propped on the man’s desk. 

 

David pushes them off, and looks at him annoyed and confused.

 

“No? What would I have to talk about?” 

 

Killian doesn't answer, unsure of how to even begin to phrase the question. 

 

Most of his “cases” as Emma called them had been more than happy to reveal the wrongs done to them, the reasoning for their quests, the justifications for their hatred. Some had been loud, some had yelled, had spit their vitriol and hate into the world with every breath. He isn't sure what to do with the quiet and evasive stare, the false lying smile of a man he thinks of as a friend. A man who reminds him of his brother. 

 

He simply sets the spear on the table, giving it a spin. Once. Twice. And then nothing, it sticks fast and telling, locked onto the man before him. David looks down at it, his eyes narrowing to a glare. 

 

“What are you trying to say Hook?” His voice is edged in anger and Killian tries not to wince at the subtle emphasis on his moniker, the weight of his namesake heavy on his wrist as he motions with it towards the evidence before them.

 

“It doesn't lie,” he says simply.

 

“And you think I'm what? Out for revenge?” David scoffs, his eyes shining with the same anger in his voice, and the lie in his heart. Killian can tell by the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. “Against who?”

 

“You tell me,” Killian stands, pocketing the spearhead, softening his voice.“I can help you. I've some experience with the subject after all.” 

 

“There’s no subject,” David moves to walk to the door. It’s a losing battle before he even started.

 

“Your little vengeance detector is wrong.” 

 

Killian reaches out again, this time with a hand on the man’s arm instead of pleading words.

 

“Don't you think you owe it to your family to set whatever this is aside?” Desperation makes him indelicate, abrupt, and David shakes him off immediately, glaring at him. 

 

“What do you know about family, pirate?” David spits and logically Killian knows what he's doing, this is familiar territory after all, but it doesn't stop the almost physical reaction he has, the pain that lances through his chest, making him step back. 

 

He doesn't move to stop him again.

 

____

 

David doesn't want his help and when he learns days later from a crying Snow in his kitchen what it's about, the Evil Queen revealing the truth in a bid to rip them further apart, Emma’s arms around her mother, he’s not sure he even has help to offer.

 

Who would possibly accept advice on dealing with the loss of a father from a man who killed his own? How could the Prince look at him knowing he had left another young boy fatherless as well? What could  _ he _ possibly do to make this better? 

 

He puts the spearhead away, tucks it in his small chest of things, buries it deep in the bottom, still warm with magic, imbued with purpose, with a promise to a Captain from long ago.

 

He shuts the lid. 

 

_____

 

David sets a bottle and a glass on the table before him, and slides into the booth across. 

 

“I know you were just trying to help,” he says finally, both of them staring far too long at the brown liquid in their respective glasses before he speaks. 

 

“Very ineffectually,” Killian says brightly. “Though I don't think I was the right pirate for the job anyway.” 

 

“Maybe not,” David says, and the next item that goes into the table is the spearhead. 

 

David gives it a spin. Once, twice, three times, four, around it goes until it stops on its own from a lack of momentum, landing somewhere between them, pointing at poorly chosen wallpaper and a mustard stain on the table. 

 

“But it seems you did a pretty good one.” 

  
  


_____

 

The spins are longer and longer with each week that passes, each soul he saves, or doesn't, sometimes landing on nothing at all.

 

Emma’s eyes shine with pride, with love, and the metal is cold in his pocket most days. 

 

Which is why it is so surprising when it suddenly jumps to life on the table in front of him one morning after Emma has left for work, Henry for school, jerking towards the front of the diner.

 

The young boy who enters is no older than Henry, with a scowling face and unkempt dark hair desperately in need of a cut. Killian feels something snap in his chest, a recognition, a fear, and he swallows as he watches the angry young man place a handful of crumpled bills on the counter.

 

The spearhead doesn't move and when he picks it up it's hot in his hands, humming with magic. 

 

“Oi,” he calls to the boy. “You there. What's your name lad?” 

 

His eyes aren't blue, but rich chocolate brown, the hair slightly curling at the edges of his collar. Freckles dot a familiar nose and Killian knows the answer before the words leave the child’s mouth. 

 

“Liam.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
